‘Me neither.’ When he was little and couldn’t sleep Mum would let him in her bed. She’d stay up watching TV or reading the papers, while he wriggled about under the sheets till he passed out. Is that why he’s sleeping so soundly next to Yvonne? It’s too weird to think about.

‘And there are no towels,’ Yvonne says.

‘I brought my microfibre towel,’ he says, happy that it’s finally come in useful.

She waves him away then bobs about the room, lifting the curtains and checking outside, pulling the corner of the mattress up and the sheets away, going on about an article she read on bedbugs. He lies back on the bed and closes his eyes, but when he does his head fills with images from the last two days; the uneaten crumbly cake at his grandparents’, the photo of the stained hospital beds, the oil lamps at the bars with corrugated iron roofs and Mum, everywhere. Mum telling Cynthia and Neil to ‘back off’, Mum pointing out the roadside shacks and smiling, Mum searching for ways to help the women forced to give birth on dirty beds.

She’s everywhere here.

Chapter Fourteen

Soho

March 2009

Yvonne

Yvonne rolls the desk chair into the bathroom of her flat and props her phone up against the taps. ‘How hard can it be?’ she mumbles as she plays the YouTube clip again, the one in which a useful-looking all-American man explains how to lay grout. It looks easy enough, it’s just that it’s a beautifully crisp Sunday morning and there are a hundred other things she would rather be doing. Such as returning to that Pilates class she swore she would attend weekly or exploring her new area or even lying in bed sleeping off her sixty-hour week. But this, wearing an £80 tracksuit while doing DIY, is the real homeowner experience.

Yvonne rubs her eyes with her wrists, her fingers already covered in grout. She doesn’t want to have to do this. She wants to be able to call someone and have them sort it all out for her. But the bathroom smells of mould and there’s no money left.

The clip pauses as her phone rings. It’s Emma.

‘Shit.’ Why does Emma always call at the very worst moment? Always, when Yvonne is on deadline, or being driven mad while babysitting her nephews or unable to pick up the phone because her fingers are covered in crap. She rubs a hand on the towel and moves the phone to the floor where it vibrates around in a circle. On and on it goes. But then, Emma has always been persistent.

Yvonne answers. ‘Emma?’

‘Babe. How long does it take to pick up the phone?’

‘I’m busy,’ she snaps. ‘I’m doing DIY.’

Emma laughs. ‘DIY?’

‘Yes. Unfortunately.’

‘How are you settling in? Housewarming on the cards yet?’